Saiyan See, Saiyan Do
by Saiyan-Princess522
Summary: A collection of one-shots about Trunks and Bra struggling to keep-up with their Saiyan father.
1. Hair Scare

HAIR SCARE

Trunks swirled his spoon around the floating Captain Crunch's in his bowl. His appetite had left him early that morning, for reasons unknown. It was Saturday, but he was in the sourest of moods. Being fifteen usually meant sleeping in when school was not in session, not waking at six. His body was stiff and tense, he hated when they fought. He and everyone else in the compound could hear their screams. It was agonizing.

Bra, his six-year-old sister, trudged into the kitchen with her teddy bear held closely to her chest. She took a seat next to her equally annoyed brother.

"Bra," the young Prince asked, "why are you up so early, it's Saturday?"

The little girl rubbed her eyes and mumbled, "Mommy and Daddy woke me up."

Trunks rolled his eyes and returned to his cereal. He doesn't like the fact that she is so used to their parents arguing – even though he was. They heard a door slam and pounding feet make their way down the stairs. Bra curled her legs cross-legged onto the chair and pulled her bear closer. Vegeta, their Saiyan father, angrily appeared, not that he ever appeared sweetly. His children pretended to be preoccupied; however, after fifteen years of parenting, Vegeta knew they were eavesdropping.

Trunks was fed up with the continuous verbal showdowns between these two powerhouses and addressed his father, "Are you two done?"

The elder Prince poured himself a glass of milk, "Never, boy."

Bra chimed in, "But daddy," he perked up at the slightest inclination that she would even have a say in the matter, "why do you two have to _yell_ your love to each other, instead of in other ways?"

Both he and Trunks were perplexed by her question, "What?"

She fiddled with her bear's ear, "I mean, if you love each other _so_ much, the only way you can tell one another is through yelling."

"Bra," her father started, "your mother and I do not tell each other we love each other through speech – it's a waste of breath."

"Why not?"

Sighing in annoyance of his daughter's persistence, he responded, "Because, princess, how I tell your mother I love her is through my very presence in this house."

Bra, still confused, changed the subject, "Daddy?"

Vegeta rolled his eyes, "Yes, Bra?"

"Why does Trunks have lavender hair and I have blue hair – who has your hair?"

Trunks choked on his cereal, while their father had a look of bewilderment on his face, "Bra, where did that come from?"

She shrugged her small shoulders and looked at her bear, "I don't know. There are boys in my class who have the same hair as their father, why doesn't Trunks?"

He could simply not explain the concept of genetics to his daughter right now. Scrambling for a reasonable answer he blurted out, "Because your brother has not earned the right to don pure Saiyan hair."

Trunks dropped his spoon. "Really?" asked Bra.

"Yes, now _please_ stop with the questions!"

"Yes, daddy!" and she jumped out of her seat, skipping all the way to her room.

Once she was out of sight, Trunks turned to his father, "Good lie, Dad. That will keep her satisfied for years."

Vegeta raised an eyebrow, "Who said I was lying, boy?"

"What? No, dad, you know that's not true. It's all genetics, right?"

He put the milk carton back in the refrigerator, "I wouldn't be so sure."

Now, he was aggravated, "C'mon, dad, I'm not five anymore! I know the whole birds-and-bees thing; I have Grandpa's hair, don't I?"

"Well, son, my father had jet-black hair like all Saiyans do – purebloods that is – and when I was born, I had dark _brown_ hair. My father told me at a young age that I would have to earn the right to obtain a true warrior's color. I trained under extreme stress until I was eight, when my hair turned what it is today."

"What about me? I've been training ridiculously hard in the Gravity Room _every day_ with you – how come I don't have it?"

Vegeta looked hard at his son, "Come to think of it boy, until you achieve the level of an honorable elite warrior like you should be, you are not even _half_-Saiyan."

Trunks slammed his fists on the table, "Are you kidding me? You're _disowning_ me until my hair turns your color?"

"Consider it a challenge, boy." he said walking back upstairs.

Trunks shook in head in utter shock, "What the _hell_ just happened? Either he was seriously or dragging me into one of his traps…he's so good at that. Well," he said getting up, "if he thinks I'm not good enough to even be a Saiyan, then I guess I will have to do the unfathomable…what am I getting myself into?"

He proceeded to exit out the front door just as his mother, Bulma, stepped into the living room. She furrowed her brows when he left – it _was_ a Saturday morning. With a shrug, she shuffled her slippered-feet into the kitchen to come face-to-face with her husband. He gave her a disappointing look to match the aggravated scowl she wore. The two ignored each other as they ate in silence. Bulma snuck a glance at her partner of fifteen years and grumbled, "So, where is Trunks going on a Saturday morning?"

Vegeta countered her gravelly tone with his own, "I told the boy an insignificant white-lie so his sister would stop pestering me. I would assume, after eavesdropping on him talking to himself, that he would go and fulfill it."

Bulma swiveled around in her chair to face him, "What did you tell him?"

He took a drink from his glass, "Just that he would have to earn the right to don Saiyan hair – since Bra questioned where his lavender hair comes from."

"What!"

He looked at his wife with a confused grimace, "Woman, what are you yelling about now?"

"You told our son that he would have to _earn_ the right to have black hair?"

"Yes, that is what I told him –"

"You jerk! Now he thinks he's not good enough to be your _son_?"

"Bulma," he put his hands on her shoulders, "I was just joking, and I would never think the boy will take me seriously. He never listens to me anyways."

They heard the front door slam and rose from their chairs. Trunks walked in to find his parents staring at him with their mouths hanging open.

"What?" he asked.

Bra skipped sweetly into the kitchen, took one look at her brother and had an equally shocked face. Bulma rushed up to him, grabbed his head and shook it slightly, tears welling in her eyes. Vegeta crossed his arms and snorted at his son's stupidity.

"Trunks!" she cried, "What have you done?"

He pried his mother's hands off, "Mom, it's not permanent. The lady said it would wash out in two to three months –"

Bulma silenced him, "The lady?"

"Yeah," answered the half-Saiyan in an obvious tone, "the lady who colored my hair –"

"Did it have to be _black_?" interjected Bulma.

Trunks rolled his eyes, "Mom, relax –"

"No!" she screamed, "I will NOT relax! You have destroyed your hair, your beautiful hair! All because of your monkey of a father!"

"Hey!" shouted Vegeta, "I take offense to that!"

"Good." she countered.

Bra walked up to her brother, with a head of black hair and dyed black eyebrows. She leaned in really close, standing on her toes.

"I like it." she declared and skipped back upstairs.

Trunks scratched the back of his head, "Sorry, Mom, I just wanted Dad to be proud of me…I guess…"

Bulma crossed her arms, "Well, I hope you're happy, Vegeta. Now our son has to walk around looking like a punk for three months!"

Vegeta smirked and walked towards his son, staring at him with intrigue, "Boy," he started, "You thought this would make me proud?"

"Yes, sir, that's what I thought –"

"Hmph," he interrupted, "Gravity Room. Now." Vegeta turned on his heels and marched out the door, his scared son following close behind. Bulma watched from the kitchen window, shaking her head at the two men she loves most.

"Sometimes," she said to herself, "I never understand them! Then again, that's why I married Vegeta in the first place – always leaving me guessing!"


	2. Artist in the Making

ARTIST IN THE MAKING

Bra shifted uneasily in her plastic blue chair, tugging at her hair. She nervously gazed around at the other children in the room running and screaming – feeling very intimidated and small. Even though her father is one of the strongest men in the universe and can, and will, hold authority over anything, she still is vulnerable to be scared.

Vegeta put a reassuring hand on her hunched back, gently moving in circles. Bra wiped away a fallen tear and gazed up at her protector. He was also very tense, since he was surrounded by humans and their mongrels. Bra was raised to be poised and well-behaved – Vegeta wouldn't have it otherwise.

"What am I doing here?" he thought to himself, "How could I have let that woman drag me into this? 'Father-daughter bonding' she said? Hmph! Bra and I don't need to be here to develop somewhat of a connection."

An elderly woman clapped her hands and called the children to return to their parents. Scampering and scurrying about they were, Vegeta flinched and took the seat next to his five-year-old in an identical plastic blue chair fit for a pint-sized child, not a Saiyan warrior. Parents hushed and settled their children while Bra stared at her tablemates. Most of them were crying with snot dripping from their noses; she recoiled into her father's arms in disgust. He looked down at his youngest and smirked. She was the spitting-image of her mother; however, she had his stubbornness.

One arm around his daughter, Vegeta reached over and picked up a red tube of paint, analyzing it. Bulma has been teaching him to read Earth's most dominant language, since he can speak it perfectly. Slowly he sounded out the words but gave up, turning to his child and asking, "What it this?"

She grabbed it with her little hands, "It's paint, daddy."

He snorted, "Paint, huh?" and set it back down. The elderly woman went to the front of the room and waited for everyone's attention. She was accompanied by two younger assistants in black aprons.

"So," she began, "welcome to Preschoolers Beginning Art! My name is Mrs. Sandra, and these are my two lovely assistants, Kate and Johanna." Vegeta's eyes were rolling in boredom, "Today, we are going to have each child create a finger-painting collage on a _real canvas_!"

Several parents "ooed" and "ahhed", Bra just intertwined her fingers together. She gazed up to her father for approval, he nodded towards the paints. As she leaned over to grab the yellow tube, the boy across her put his hand on the other end. The half-Saiyan glared at the determined boy, giving him her best "Vegeta stare". The boy coward away and Bra retrieved it victoriously, handing it to her proud alien father to open. Vegeta returned the paint to his daughter and turned his attention to the boy's mother, who was scowling at _him_ for what his child did. He countered her scowl with a "not-my-problem" shrug.

Bra squeezed the life out of the tube, getting frustrated because it was clogged. Vegeta took it from her, and with two fingers, squeezed half the bottle on her canvas. She took her hands, raised them above her head, and then smashed them down onto it. He could care less. Honestly, all she needed him to do was get and open stuff for her, what good was he?

Other parents were helping their children with the artwork, not Bra; she was too independent and sophisticated for her age. The elderly woman came over to their table and gazed at Bra making a big yellow mess. She smiled fondly at Vegeta.

"You know," she startled him out of his trance, "we don't get many fathers in here."

"Hn." was his reply, turning back to Bra.

She continued, "She's really lucky, you know, to have you be so hands-on."

He looked up at her, "As opposed to what?"

The lady was taken aback by his harsh tone, "Well, I meant, most fathers aren't the stay-at-home type –"

"Do you think I had a _choice_?" interrupted the Saiyan, "ever since my weakling-of-a-son was born, that crazy woman has forced me to reside within the compound! Now, I have to be _here_ – watching pathetic humans and their snot-nosed brats do something a gorilla could do!"

The entire room was watching him explode forty-five years of anger onto this poor old woman. He gave them all a deathly glare and they returned to their canvases. Bra was used to her father's rampages, and lifted up her masterpiece to his face.

"Look, daddy, look!" she positively squealed.

Vegeta had to use his warrior-like reflexes to stop the sharp edge from hitting him square in the eye. He looked at it with confused eyes. Normally, if something was bad, like Bulma's cooking, he would mention it bluntly without hesitation. However, she wore the most innocent and hopeful face he had ever seen, so he answered, "Yes, Bra, it's very good."

She squeaked in glee and was about to wrap her arms around his neck, "Wait, princess," she retracted her filthy arms, "go wash your hands, then we'll go home."

Bra jumped out of her seat and bolted to the sink. Vegeta watched her from afar with her artwork in his hands. She was so small, on her toes to reach the water. He sighed and rose from his seat as well, proudly smiling at his daughter.


	3. How I Came to Be

HOW I CAME TO BE

It was Sunday evening. I sat reclined in my favorite chair, breathing in the lovely smells of home cooking – or so I thought.

I felt a small tug on my finger; I looked down to see a small hand wrapped around mine. I smiled, it was my youngest, Bra. She either wants something or has a question, a very persistent girl.

"What is it, Bra?" I said, the usual scowl returning.

She gazed up at me with beautiful blue eyes, just like her mother. I raised an eyebrow in confusion since she wasn't responding like Bulma (in a harsh tone and volume). Thirty seconds went by until I reclosed my eyes and leaned back.

"Wait, daddy!" she screamed pulling on my arm. I woke with such a start that I shouted when her minute voice shattered my eardrums. Bra recoiled to the floor and waited for me to notice her. Once I did, my eyes rolled and I ended up waiting for her. It's a game we play.

"Daddy?" she mumbled.

"Yes, Bra?" I grumbled back.

She hesitated and stammered, "W-Where do I come from?"

Time stopped right then and there. My own daughter, who is six, asked me, the Saiyan Prince, where she comes from. How in the _hell_ am I suppose to answer _that_?

"B-Bulma!" I shouted, still staring at my daughter.

Bulma, my wife of fifteen years, stormed in wearing a ruffled-apron and a spatula in her hand, "What?" she bellowed back.

"B-Bra asked w-where she comes from…"

The blue-haired heiress was taken aback by my statement, "Oh…well, then…um, Bra…"

"Yes, Mommy?" piped the small girl.

"Your Daddy and I loved each other so much," I scrunched my brows together in misunderstanding, "that we put all of it into you."

Bra raised her own brow, "But, where do I _come_ from? The sky?"

Bulma put one hand on the back of the chair for support, "Um, well, no."

Now I chimed in, "What?" she hit my head with the spatula.

"Darling, we put our love into the ground, like seeds, and nine months later you grew into a beautiful baby girl!"

"What! That's a piece of –"

"Understand, sweetie?"

"Yes, Mommy!" and she ran off to her room.

My angry partner turned to me and whacked me once again with the spatula, "Nice going, Vegeta, remember what happened to Trunks when you told him?"

I but my tongue remembering that vivid day. He was eleven-years-old and had just come home from school. "Dad, where did Bra come from?" I shuddered at the sound of those words. "Well, son," I replied, "your mother looked very nice that day, I believe. She was dressed in a red, tight dress –" Trunks plugged his ears, "Okay, Dad, stop now please!"

I blinked it away. The smell of dinner beckoned me into the kitchen where Bra was already seated at the table with her brother on the left. I took my usual place at the head and laid down my napkin.

"Trunks!" squealed the princess, "Guess what Mommy told me today?"

Oh no. "What?"

"She told me where I come from, and you know what? I was planted in the ground like an itsy-bitsy little seed. Then, nine months later, I sprang up and landed in Mommy and Daddy's arms!" she stood on her chair with her arms spread out.

Trunks raised an eyebrow and looked at me, "Oh, yeah, that reminds me. You never really told me the whole story, Dad."

I slapped my hands to my face.


	4. HomeCooked Nothing

HOME-COOKED NOTHING

There I was, sitting in my room doing my homework when a loud boom echoed throughout the compound. Smoke started to seep in from under my door, so I blocked it with shirts, and sat back down. This was normal, for my house at least, Dad had blown-up the Gravity Room…again.

"VEGGGGEETAAAA!" I heard my mother scream.

"WHAT NOW, WOMAN?" shouted my Saiyan father.

Rolling my eyes, I rose and walked out the door, covering my mouth and hacking dust circulating about. The walls were coated in black charcoal and the ceiling had a large crater in it. As I said, typical for my home.

The yelling continued, "THIS IS THE THIRD TIME THIS WEEK! IT'S RIDICULOUS – GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF!"

"IF YOU COULD FIX THE DAMN THING, THEN MAYBE IT WOULDN'T SELF-DESTRUCT!"

"SELF-DESTRUCT? WHY DON'T YOU SELF-DESTRUCT AND GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"

A door slammed, followed by an aggravated groan from Mom. Cautiously, I entered the kitchen – or what was left of the kitchen. The entire dining table, refrigerator, and wall were blown out to nothing but rubble.

"Impressive." I murmured. My mother glared at me with dangerous eyes, oh how I _hate_ that look! She was drumming her fingers on the counter, with the other hand on her hip. She wore a deep scowl – contemplating the most effective punishment for Dad, I bet.

"Mom," she looked to me, "when will Dad be back?"

Mom straightened up and inhaled a deep breath, "I don't know, Trunks. I would hope tonight, since he _is_ cooking us dinner."

Did I hear that right?

"You see, Trunks, I have given your father every possible punishment that I could think of for the past fifteen years. This seems to be the only logical one left!"

"But Mom, he'll kill us all!"

She snorted, "Please, Trunks, he's not _that_ bad a cook, is he?"

"Have you seen him with the microwave?" I shuddered thinking about it.

"Well, any minute now he'll be flying through the hole in the wall, mumbling to himself how he got into this situation in the first place…"

I turned around to face her, "What situation?"

Mom furrowed her brows in confusion, "What do you mean 'what situation'?"

"I mean, did something happen a long time ago that he regret or something?"

She picked at her nails, "Well, honey, your father met me."

Before I could respond, she walked upstairs, knowing she had won the argument, or what seemed like one. Flabbergasted, I remained leaning against the counter with my arms crossed, trying to figure out the strange riddle. "Your father met me…" I whispered to myself. Well, no use pondering over something that will _never_ get explained to you. I clicked my tongue in a rhythmic song, not wanting to return to my homework. Dad cooking _us_ dinner? No, he wouldn't do it. He'd probably say princes don't cook and storm off to train, dragging me with him. No, I will not let that happen, not after last week – I couldn't move for days!

Just then, Dad flew in and landed on the rubble, looking completely relaxed and calm. I opened my mouth to speak but was interrupted by his gruff voice, "Save it, I know what I'm doing." He was carrying a small plastic bag containing vegetables. Why would Dad have a bag of food?

I watched him unload the contents onto the burnt counter, being extra gentle with the carton of eggs. My eyebrows rose higher and higher as a new item was placed down. This has to be a dream; I must have fallen asleep in my Geometry book. Then, if you thought that was much, he turned on the _stove_. A low-flame sparked to life and my alien father put a skillet over it, _spraying it_ with non-stick spray. What universe was I transported to?

"Dad…" I barely got out I was so in shock.

"What?" he grumbled back.

"W-What are you doing?"

He stopped chopping up the vegetables and put down the knife, "Trunks?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"What do you _think_ I'm doing?" he spat with an obvious tone.

"Um, cooking?"

"Yes, boy, I'm cooking. Why is this such a surprise to you?"

"Well, it's just that Mom is usually the one who cooks and I've never seen you –"

"Watch it, boy!" he cut me off, holding the knife in my direction, "Every warrior must know basic survival skills. If that means assembling a well-cooked meal then so be it."

Dad returned to his "work" and my little sister, Bra, skipped in with her teddy bear under her arm.

"What'cha doin', Daddy?" she asked in the most-fake sweetness.

I waited for him to explode on her, "Cooking, princess."

What! My mouth dropped to the floor, well, not literally.

She took a seat on the rubble and played with her bear while I gaped at her in utter shock. She's always so _perfect_. In front of my parents, at least, getting away with annoying me and blaming me for everything. Sometimes, I wonder if I even have a voice around here!

The comforting sound of the knife hitting the cutting board lured me into a trance, Bra hummed sweetly with her bear, while Mom…well, screamed excessively about the hole in the wall.

"UGH! THIS STUPID HOUSE! I CAN'T WAIT TO GET OUT OF THIS DAMN CITY AWAY FROM THAT DAMN MONKEY I CALL A HUSBAND!"

Dad seemed unfazed by her shrieking, after fifteen years I would tune it out, too. Then he did the _unthinkable_ – dumped the vegetables and uncooked pasta into the pot boiling on the stove. When did he learn all of this? From what I have gathered, life under Freiza's reign left no time for culinary school. Why would an elite warrior need to learn at what temperature in which to soften pasta?

"Trunks." grumbled my father.

Snapping myself out of my trance I answered, "Yeah?"

"Why can't you be more like your sister?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know, be _respectful_, train every _once in a while_ – stuff like that."

Bra beamed up with an evil look in her eye, "Ha!"

"You've got to be kidding –"

"No, boy, no more fooling around. You're getting to an age where there is going to be some changes –"

"Ew! Dad, stop!"

He smirked and poured the contents of the pot into a colander. Steam sizzled out and the fresh smell of grains filled the room. Strange, it smelled _normal_, not toxic or poisonous. Mom stormed down and stomped her heels into the kitchen.

"VEEGGEETTAA – oh! You cooked, thanks"

Wow, that was weird.

Dad leaned into my ear and whispered, "Word to the wise, boy, the way to a Saiyan's heart is food; the way to a woman's is carbs."

He left me standing there with a confused look on my face. I'll never understand my Dad!


	5. Even Princesses's Cry

THIS ONE IS FOR **TEAR BRIEF** FOR HER LOVE OF FAMILY STORIES

EVEN PRINCESSES'S CRY

Let's get something straight – I love my Daddy very much.

I know he may _seem_ tough and arrogant, but really, he's just a big teddy bear, waiting to be hugged. My nuisance-of-a-brother, Trunks, always complains about how Daddy is training him too hard and blah, blah, blah…

Well, that is sort of true.

Daddy told me that once, Trunks used to latch onto him like a leech – whatever _that_ is. I'm only six, how am I supposed to know what in Kami's name a "leech" is?

Anyways, it all started when Daddy was forced to pick me up from school because I missed the bus. It's not my fault that we took awhile to clean-up after art; kids can be so _messy_! So, there Daddy was pacing, as usual, in front of my classroom. How he found it in the first place…nobody knows…a few kids were scared of my Saiyan father. Maybe because when Daddy paces, he grumbles about this "wretched planet", I think that's what he says.

"Daddy!" I screamed, running around my teacher and through the door. I slammed into him with all my might, though he didn't budge.

"Bra." he groaned.

I beamed at him, "Yes, Daddy?"

"Why are you attached to my leg like a _leech_?"

There was that word again! "Because I love you, that's why!"

He rolled his eyes, "Fine, then, let's go."

"Wait, Daddy!"

"What?" he screamed, attracting attention from many frightened parents pulling their children closer to them.

"What's a leech?"

He slid his hand down his face, "Ugh – never mind. Let's just go home so you can play with whatever _doll_ you want and so I can train. I would have done it earlier, but that baka had _paperwork_ or something like that…"

My six-year-old vocabulary only caught a few of his words, "What?"

"Just get off me, Bra!"

To his order, I released my grip and backed away. I shrugged my pink backpack off my shoulders and Daddy took it from me. We walked in silence to the car. He picked me up and strapped me into my car seat. Unfortunately, I'm the only one in my class who still uses a car seat; I was blessed with my father's height. He would prefer to fly; however, Mommy wants us to be a normal family, so flying is definitely out of the question. I stared out the window, not wanting to make conversation. When I come home from school, the first thing I do is interrupt Daddy when he trains, which he hates, and tell him about my day. So, to avoid an even _more_ upset Daddy, I zipped my lips with a key and threw it away. We made eye contact in the rear-view mirror. He saw my distraught face and I saw his angered one. He shook his head and snorted, saying something about cursing Mommy for making him get me, something along those lines. The car pulled into the garage and Daddy cut the engine. He sat in the driver's seat with his head against the headrest, with me just waiting to be released from my prison.

"Daddy?" I murmured.

He didn't open his eyes, "What?"

"Can we go now?"

"Fine." he groaned, stretching-out his back. I waited patiently in the car seat for him to unbuckle me, since he shuffled like an old man to my side. Sometimes, I don't understand him.

Once inside, I ran to Mommy who was cutting-up vegetables in the kitchen, and hugged her leg for dear-life.

"Mommy, Mommy!" I cried.

"Bra," she put down the knife, "what's wrong, honey?"

"D-Daddy doesn't like me, M-Mommy!"

She laughed, which comforted me, "Oh, Bra, Daddy doesn't _hate_ you, silly girl! He's just in a bad mood. You know how he gets."

"R-Really?" I asked in between hiccups.

"Yes," she said, picking me up, "there's no need for tears."

"Daddy s-said that princesses don't cry."

"Sweetie," I looked at her, "even _princesses _cry."


	6. Every Saiyan Has a Weakness

EVERY SAIYAN HAS A WEAKNESS

My eyes fluttered open, focusing in on the muscular figure next to me.

I sighed. It was my dear husband, Vegeta. I listened to his deep breathing and watched his body inhale and exhale. How on Earth did I fall for someone like _this_? Never in a million years would I have chosen an alien to be wed to, nevermore have _children_ with. I always thought it would be Yamacha, the bandit I feel in love with over twenty years ago.

_BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BE-_

I rose with a start and slammed my hand down on the alarm clock. Vegeta rustled in the covers and groaned – it was, by the way, six in the morning. His scowl deepened and he opened an eye, staring directly at me.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty." I smirked at him.

He only frowned at me, "Likewise, Frog _Princess_."

I matched his frown. This was typical, our form of love. Constantly bickering and battling it out. Well, that _is_ how we first started out when he moved into Capsule Corp.

"TRUNKS, GIVE ME BACK MY DOLLY!" we heard from down the hall.

"GOTTA SAY PLEASE, BRAT!"

There was a thud and we both jumped from the bed; I ran to put on my robe, Vegeta already out the door. Once I caught up to him, he was holding Trunks and Bra up by the backs of their shirts, two feet off the ground. They were still squirming, trying to get at each other. If Vegeta weren't in between them, they would rip each other to shreds!

I intervened, "Now, _what_ is GOING ON HERE!"

As if they were born mute, my children looked away, not wanting to face my wrath. I met my husband's eyes and he nodded with a smirk.

"Alright!" he yelled, setting down the two, "One of you – I don't care _who_ – is going to tell why in the hell you are SCREAMING!"

Trunks leaned in, "Well, Dad, _you're _the one who is scr –"

He received a slap to the back of his head. Bra crossed her arms, "Serves him right!" I went up and grabbed her by the arm, she yelped in pain.

Trunks sighed and fessed-up, "Okay, you see, I was quietly going downstairs to get some water when I happened to step on one of Bra's dolls – _accidently_. She apparently heard me step on her stupid doll like they have telepathic connections or something, and started hitting me and screaming, 'Get away from my dolly' and blah, blah, blah…"

Vegeta raised an eyebrow, not believing a word his son just said, "Here's what going to happen," he started, our children stared with nervous looks on their faces, "the boy is going to give Bra the doll back, receiving _two extra hours_ of training today –"

"What!" exclaimed Trunks.

"And Bra," he continued, unfazed by her puppy-dog eyes, "is going to _start_ training with me, today."

"No!" she whined, "I don't wanna be a warrior!"

Vegeta rolled his eyes and returned to our bedroom. I shrugged and escorted Bra back to bed. She sniffled and grumbled all the way until she was under her covers. She is so much like her father, always complaining that nothing is ever done her way. Trunks is like me, making-up excuses and trying to act innocent. I removed my robe once I was in my room. Vegeta was staring out the window with his arms crossed.

"Vegeta?" I murmured, coming up behind him.

He didn't respond so I continued, "Why don't you wear your wedding ring?"

He jerked his head to me, "A what?"

I rolled my eyes, "Your _wedding ring_? Remember? From our _wedding day_?"

"I do not know of such thing."

"Ugh – Vegeta! One of these!" I showed him the one he got me fourteen years ago, a year after Trunks was born.

"You still have that?"

I slammed my palm to my face, "Of _course_ I still have mine, you stupid monkey!"

"Hmph!"

"So tell me, oh great _Prince_, where is yours?"

He furrowed his brow, "Mine?"

"Yes, dear, yours."

"It's in the top drawer, of course."

"Why don't you wear it?"

"Why would I?"

"So people know that you are taken – I can't have sleezy women flirting with _my_ husband!"

"Woman, you are the only one for me, and you know that."

"Really?"

"No 'duh', woman. Now, please, let's go back to bed."

I followed him and got under the covers, "Aww, Vegeta, even _you _have a weakness!"

He slammed his fist on the pillow, "Do not!"

"Do, too!"

"Do not!"

Bra shouted from her room, "Would you two _shut up_ already? People are trying to sleep, here!"

We rolled our eyes and shut off the light.


	7. Saiyans Don't Need Doctors

SAIYANS DON'T NEED DOCTORS

Baka woman, why won't she answer the door. I had to interrupt my _training_ to cease the blasted annoyance these weaklings call a "doorbell". On Vegeta-sei, there was no concept of a ringing bell – simply slam your fist onto the door, and repeat until an answer. Sometimes, the visitor would break and few hinges if someone weren't home.

I stopped the Gravity Room and felt the immense pressure off my back released when the gravity reset.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" I screamed at the impatient intruders – maybe they were Saiyans…

The door whirled open and there stood two men dressed in what seemed like office-attire. One was obviously the controller in the relationship – like I was to Nappa – and removed his sunglasses.

"Are you," he glanced at his notepad, "Mr. Vegeta?"

I tensed, "What if I am?"

The stronger man looked at his partner and raised his eyebrows, "Well, Mr.…Vegeta…you seem to, well, not exist."

A scowl formed, "What?"

The quieter man piped up, "You see, Mr. Vegeta, we know of your existence, however, you fail to have any bank accounts, credit cards, insurance, or birth certificates. The only way we have known about your residence here is through your partner, Bulma."

"So? I have been here on this God-forsaken planet for twenty years now!" I shouted at the now-quiet man.

"Yes, Mr. Vegeta, we know all about your two children and your –"

"Wait," I interrupted, "you know about my offspring?"

"Yes, in fact, Bra is six and Trunks is fifteen, am I right?"

I stared dumbfounded at the ground, then shot my icy glare back at him, "How do you know about them? How do you know me? What do you want?"

The stronger man stepped in front of the other, "Look, all we need is your stats and we'll be on our way."

"Stats?"

"You know, medical records, educational records, doctor's notes –"

"Doctor's notes?"

"Yes, you have a doctor, right? You seem to be in…good shape, but still –"

"I have no such thing!"

They exchanged glances, "Sir, you are going to have to obtain a signed doctor's agreement note along with your medical records for full-information."

"How in the hell do you expect me to do _that_?"

"It's up to you, there are hundreds in town. If I were you, Mr. Vegeta, I would get one. Because, if you don't, we'll arrest you for fraud."

"Fraud? Who am I portraying – Kami?"

He handed me a card, "Call when you have everything in order."

And they left, leaving me with the most confused look on my face. What the hell was that? These bakas come to my home and expect me to do what they want? I don't think so!

"BULMA!" I shouted when I re-entered the house.

"WHAT?" she yelled back.

"I need a doctor…" I reluctantly said, looking at the card in my hands. She tried to hold in her giggles but instead burst out laughing at me, holding her abdomen in her joyous pain.

"WOMAN! This is not a laughing matter! These weaklings think I don't exist – they think I am a f_raud_ or something like that…"

After she regained control of her breathing, she said, "Vegeta, basically, you're living on Earth without being a registered citizen. That's why you can't even get your driver's license or get a job – which you should do!"

I ignored her rants and simply diverted the conversation, "Where on this hell-hole can I find a doctor? If I do, all I need is a rejuvenation chamber and that's –"

"We don't have those here! This is _Earth_, Vegeta, not space!"

I crossed my arms, "Fine, just take me to this damn doctor!"

Within a half-an-hour, I was sitting in the waiting room of a crowded office, surrounded by people on crutches, with screaming mongrels, and some who were coughing their lungs out. Bulma was "texting" on her communication device or whatever she does. She kept hushing me when I complained to her that this was taking too long – which it was! How long does it take to meet with a stupid weak pest who will obviously say I'm fine? Trunks and Bra usually go to these places, whenever they have an appointment or are sick. Saiyans never get sick; it must be from their fragile mother.

A large woman in scrubs flipped a page on her clipboard, "Mr. … Vegeta?"

Bulma grabbed her bag and my arm, rushing us towards the woman, despite my objections. We were placed in an examination room that was entirely white, a tall bench covered with wax paper was where she told me to sit. The paper crinkled when I put weight onto it, it made me irritated, and my sensitive ears cringed under the immense crackling.

The doctor came in, looking at his own clipboard, why does everyone here have those?

"So, what brings you here today, Mr…?"

"Briefs." Bulma piped.

I stared at her with daggers in my eyes.

"Alright, Mr. Briefs, would you please take off your shoes and step on the scale for me."

I looked to Bulma for confirmation that this weirdo was serious, she nodded, and I proceeded. The scale automatically banged to the right, and the doctor exclaimed, "Whoa! What have _you_ been eating?"

Though I didn't get the sarcasm, I answered, "That infernal woman's cooking."

"Okay, then, sir, would you please come over here and put your back against the wall and stand upright." Since my Saiyan hair is easily two feet, the doctor lowered the slide to my forehead saying, "Hmm, five feet, four inches."

Bulma snickered and I scowled at her.

I sat back down on the rubber-paper chair; the doctor made notes on his clipboard and asked me, "Mr. Briefs, do you have a history of high cholesterol in your family?"

"No."

"High blood pressure?"

"Only when Kakarott gets under my skin."

He looked to Bulma, who simply said, "No."

"Diabetes?"

"No."

"Cancer?"

"No."

"Broken bones or injuries?"

At that I counted on my fingers, "Well, I can't remember how many times –"

"At least three hundred, doctor." The woman answered for me.

He hesitantly wrote that in his notes, "Allergies?"

"Kakarott."

He was numb to the whole Saiyan-thing by now, "Siblings?"

"If I did, then not anymore."

"Children?"

"Two brats." at which Bulma scowled.

"Education?"

"Haha – no!" Bulma howled. I sent even sharper daggers to her.

"Interests?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your hobbies, favorite pastimes, etc."

"Training, eating, sleeping, hitting Kakarott upside-the-head…"

"Place of birth?"

"Vegeta-sei."

"Oh, where's that?"

"It was in the West Galaxy."

"Date of birth?"

"January third in the year 1963." (refer to my other story, "A Boy Named Vegeta" for details!)

"Years married?"

"Too many."

Bulma grumbled, "Fifteen, doctor."

"Any medications taken?"

"Not yet."

"Well, then, Mr. Briefs, it seems that we are all done here. Please goes see the receptionist at the front desk for your new insurance card and medical information."

Once we were in the car, Bulma turned to me and said, "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

I rolled my eyes and stared out the window, "Now I see why those brats hate this place, they obviously haven't gotten a reasonable education – everyone knows Vegeta-sei was in the North Galaxy. I mean, the _West_? Even I would be ashamed of being from the West!"

Bulma put the car in reverse, "Whatever, Vegeta, whatever you say…"

**IF YOU WANT VEGETA TO DO OTHER THINGS FOR THE "MEN IN BLACK" LET ME KNOW!**


	8. Don't Kill Anything

DON'T KILL ANYTHING

"Have fun! Be careful!" screamed my wife, Bulma. My sensitive ears winced when she uses a voice at that volume.

I was just about to open the front door when I heard, "Oh, and Vegeta," I stopped in my tracks, "don't kill anything!"

I grunted. Baka Onna, of _course_ I won't kill a damn thing on this wretched planet. If I wanted to, I would have done it already! My son, Trunks, is applying for his permit, or whatever they call it here; something to do with operating a transportation vehicle. Once he passes a test of some sort, then he is eligible for a license – the next best thing to a permit. Due to our flying abilities, driving has never been a concern. On Vegeta-sei, I flew everywhere, so Trunks should do the same.

The wind whipped at my face and dried out my eyes, causing unintentional tears to fall. I quickly wiped them away when I noticed Trunks staring at me with bewilderment.

"Dad," he asked, "are you _crying_?"

I rolled my eyes, "Yes, my dearest son, I am just _so_ proud of you for taking this giant leap in your adolescent development – uh no!"

He jerked his head forward and mumbled something about me being a bad father. Whatever, it's probably true. We reached the gray building he calls hell. If this is hell, then heaven must be nirvana. It had a purified air-conditioning scent to it, voices echoed off the concrete walls. I crossed my arms and join the long line of morons in front of me, Trunks clicking keys on his mobile device. I peeked out of the corner of my eye at who he could possibly be talking; he pulled the device to his chest when he felt my breath on his neck.

"Geez, Dad!" he groaned, "Do you _mind_?"

I grabbed his forearm, "You really want to find out, boy?"

He wiped away the sweat rolling down his cheek when an irritated lady yelled, "Next!"

I leaned my shoulder against the counter while Trunks did all the yammering that Bulma usually does. The lady leaned to me and sneered, "Photo I.D.?"

I twitched at her closeness, "What?"

She clicked the gum in her mouth, "Sir, do you have an identification card with you or not?"

Trunks interrupted, "You see, my Dad isn't from here; he's not accustomed to the laws yet."

She darted her eyes back to me, "Where you from?"

I kept a straight-face, "Where do you _think_ I'm from?"

She popped a mint-flavored bubble, "England, they're really stuck-up there."

Fury raged in my eyes, "Listen here –"

"Dad!" Trunks put his arm in front of me, "I'm sorry for my Father, ma'am, all we need is the application for a permit and I'll need to register for driving lessons then we'll be on our way."

She relaxed back into her chair and crossed her arms, "Alright, then, just fill these out and give them to the clerks over in that kiosk."

I scowled at her when Trunks led the way to plastic tables where other applicants were frantically writing. I put my feet up and got a few looks from passer-bys. Trunks rolled his eyes and started to fill out the form. I noticed how slanted and scraggily his penmanship is. How could this be? His baka-of-a-mother has beautiful print, while I possess excellent cursive-print. It seems the boy got most of the demeaning traits from the humans.

"Dad," he mumbled, rubbing his eye, "I need to know yours or Mom's insurance information to pay."

I stared into space, "Use your Mother's, she purchases everything anyways."

He shrugged and continued to write in his chicken-scratch. Time rolled on and I became increasingly impatient. People who were three rows behind us were being scene first, which it greatly irritating.

I slammed my fist on the table, startling fellow tablemates, "What in the _hell_ is taking so long?"

"Dad!" Trunks tried to reassure me, "Stop, people are staring!"

"Let them stare, boy, let them stare."

He rolled his eyes and got up; I followed him with my eyes. He gave the form to another annoying-looking lady behind a counter; she scanned over it and stamped it, giving it back to Trunks. He returned and leaned into me, "Okay, they'll send us an informational packet or something telling us if we were accepted."

"What? Accepted? Even a monkey could apply and get into this wretched establishment!"

Trunks smirked, "Look who's talking –"

"Watch it, boy!" I grabbed his arm and pulled him out the door, "We're going home."

"Dad, you're so _embarrassing_!"

**A/N: SO? SHOULD VEGETA AND TRUNKS BE ACCEPTED…?**

**REVIEW PLEASE **


	9. It's About Time

CHAPTER ONE

IT'S ABOUT TIME

I really need a break.

Seriously, all I do is work, clean, cook, clean, work, cook, clean, work – will I ever get a break? I have a husband, a lousy one at best, who should be helping out every once in a while. But no, he has _training_ to do since there are currently no "bad guys" flying around and he isn't already the strongest (besides Goku).

I banged my head on my desk. Why me? I have two children – a fifteen and six-year-old – could life get any more demanding of me? I have a company to run, children to parent, and husband to, well, stop for annihilating us all. When is there ever time for a vacation?

It's true that we have all the money to sustain us and more, however, we've never discussed it before. I've always thought it was impossible to bring the mighty "Prince of all Saiyans" on an airplane. He hates the car, insists on flying all the time. How is he going to fly with luggage _and _me?

Anyways, so there I was, gradually getting a concussion when my dear Vegeta barged in, "Woman!" he gently screamed, "Why are you making so much NOISE?"

I sat up and grinded my teeth, "I'm making noise? I haven't made a single sound today – you're the one who's screaming!"

"Bah! You're impossible!"

"Well, you never take a vacation! Not once!"

He stopped in the doorway, "What did you say?"

"You heard me, you giant ape."

"Since when does taking a vacation matter so much to you?"

"WHAT? What do you mean 'matter to me'? I have wanted to get out of this god-forsaken city for _years_! But you're 'training schedule' hasn't allowed us to enjoy ourselves!"

He clenched his jaw and left, slamming the door behind him. Then he paused, 'Vacation, huh? Is that what the woman shouted? I'm a Saiyan, I don't take a vacation!' he thought. He furrowed his brows and reopened the room to find me standing there with my fists tightened. We stared at each other for a moment, letting the fire between us simmer out.

He took a deep breath, "Where you would like to go on this 'vacation'?"

I ran up and wrapped my arms around his muscular neck, "Oh, thank you, THANK YOU Vegeta!"

He pulled my arms off, "On one condition."

My smile turned to a pout, "On what?"

"That you take back what you said about me."

I squinted my eyes in confusion, "What thing? That you can't take a vacation to save your life?"

He inhaled, "No, dearest, about my 'training schedule'."

I stepped back, "Don't get me _started_ on your schedule that revolves only around you."

"Woman, I train hard to protect you and the brats everyday!"

"What is there to protect us from, you monkey? Do you _see_ any monsters running around West City – because I sure haven't!"

My husband cupped his hands around my face and kissed me softly; I closed my eyes and returned it. This is how we usually end our verbal battles, despite the complaints of our children. I still had my eyes shut and a small smile on my lips when I heard the door click to a close. He wasn't in front of my anymore and his chiseled hands were not on my cheeks.

**WELL? SHOULD THE BRIEFS GO ON VACATION, IF SO, WHERE TO? REVIEW PLEASE! **


	10. Orange You Glad I Didn't Say Monkey?

ORANGE YOU GLAD I DIDN'T SAY MONKEY

I have been waiting for this moment for what seems like decades. A decent vacation is all I asked and here I stand with my alien husband and demi-children in the airport. Of course, I just _had_ to bring four books for the plane, sewing kit (in case Vegeta tore his training gear), and Bra's coloring books stuffed into ten different bags. Trunks was content with an iPod while I will purposefully slip Nyquil into Vegeta's water so he'll sleep quietly through the eleven-hour plane ride.

People rushed all around us and I tried to balance my bags, children, and husband while shuffling through my purse to find our boarding passes.

"Vegeta, hold this." I slammed a bag into the arms of my dearest love, who scowled deathly at me. We haven't even left yet and I was already in a frantic, disheveled mess.

I pulled out the tickets and held them high above my head, "Okay! Now, we are ready to go!" Trunks groaned at my sing-songy tune, it's not my fault if I'm just so awesome!

Bra whimpered as strangers bumped into her left and right. She took refuge to Vegeta as she clung to him for dear life; he rolled his eyes and picked her up. With my command, the four of us set off for the security line; I tried to maintain my usual glamorous state. A checking guard with a flashlight asked for the I.D.'s of Vegeta and I, while Trunks and Bra gave him their school cards. The man raised an eyebrow at my husband, probably for his hair – we get that a lot.

"Guys, take of your shoes and jackets – Vegeta, help your daughter!" I bellowed loud enough for the entire line to hear me. I didn't care, have them be in my shoes for a day and then we'll see how they react.

I went first through the metal detector, then Trunks, followed by a timid Bra. Vegeta's hair skimmed the top of the machine as he strode through with his arms crossed. The guard in front stopped him, "Sir, please go back through the x-ray, this time with your arms at your sides."

Oh boy. Vegeta _hated _being commanded. But, he was a good patron and did as the man said, even though inside he wanted to burst. After the stressing security line, I settled everyone down at the gate and took Trunks to get breakfast. I left Bra with about two-hundred coloring books and Vegeta people-watching. The beautiful thing about having Saiyan children is that they can take care of themselves – heck, they're even stronger than me!

Trunks scrolled through his playlist and I fluffed my hair while we were in line at a coffee place. I elbowed my son, who scowled and removed a headphone from his ear, "Mom, what?"

I tried not to look hurt, "What should we get your father. He likes coffee, I know that, but do you think we should get him something to eat, too?"

"I don't know – he's _your_ husband!"

I grabbed his arm and pulled him closer to me, "Now you listen here, Trunks Vegeta Briefs, I will _not_ deal with that attitude. It's going to be a _long_ plane ride, so you'd better straighten-up and act the least bit mature!"

Trunks stepped back and put his headphone back in, mumbling away like his father. By the time we returned to the gate, Vegeta was in the same position and Bra had her crayons scattered under the seats. I knew our family would take longer than most so I made sure we got here extra early before departure.

I handed my husband his black coffee, "Your coffee."

Without acknowledgement, he proceeded to ask, "So, where are we going anyways?"

I kept the destination a secret from everyone. Because we haven't been to an airport as a family before, they didn't know to look on the sign at the gate for boarding times. Right now would be good timing to tell them, but I'll think I will spill the beans on the plane. I dashed over to Bra with a carton of orange juice, trying to gather the crayons into a neat pile.

"Vegeta," I asked playfully, still kneeling on the ground, "why do our children have such bad organization problems where you're complete OCD and I'm…well, me? Is it a _Saiyan_ thing?"

I smirked at the scowl I got in response. Toying with the Prince of all Saiyans is always a fun pastime. The hour went by quickly, with my kids content with their activities and Vegeta and I talking amongst ourselves. Over the loudspeaker, the first boarding group was announced, so we packed up and made our way to the premiere seating line. Being the future president of Capsule Corporation definitely has it perks!

"Mommy," Bra whimpered, "my ears hurt." The air pressure on the gangway was thinner than in the airport. I grinded my teeth, her ears are going to be like this the whole trip and Trunks is going to have my head when he has to deal with it. Vegeta had to duck under the entrance onto the plane since his hair couldn't fit through.

"Hey honey?" I asked, louder than I expected.

He turned slowly around, "What?"

"We're 15AB, okay?"

He rolled his eyes and put the bags in the overhead compartment. I put him in the window seat so he wouldn't have to deal with other passengers – and so he could look out the window. I pass him the water bottle with Nyquil infused in it while I took my own seat. In front of us, Trunks turns around and asks, "So, where exactly are we going?"

Vegeta took a sip of water and Bra turned around also, "Well," I smiled sweetly, "we're going to Kenya!"

My husband choked on the water and Trunks groaned and put his headphones in, Bra turned back around, clueless as to what a Kenya is.

"Woman!" shouted Vegeta.

"What, it's not _that_ bad. You'll get to see your relatives!"

He raised an eyebrow, "What relatives?"

"Primates!"

He crossed his arms, "You insufferable woman…"

I nudged him, "Hey, Vegeta?"

"What!"

"Orange you glad I didn't say _monkey_?" And with that he passed out, his head leaning on the window.


	11. Call of the Monkey

CALL OF THE MONKEY

It is precisely two o'clock in the morning – Capsule Corp. time. The shades on the window were down so Vegeta could sleep easily, as if the Nyquil didn't knock him out already. Kenya is eight more hours away. Three more hours of watching my husband twitch in his sleep, three more hours of listening to my children bicker, and three more hours of the plane smelling like the gorilla exhibit at the zoo.

The fasten-seatbelt sign binged off so I unbuckled and rose. Stretching, I caught sight of a middle-aged man staring with amazement at me, probably my body, I've gotten used to that because of Master Roshi. I leaned against Trunk's seat and tapped him on the shoulder.

"What?" his face looked as if he had eaten an unripe banana. Bra was busy coloring in pictures of castles and princesses, minding her own business. She's just like Vegeta. When he gets into something, he zones out.

"Well, my dearest son, I've come to see how you're doing."

He rolled his eyes, "_Fine_, Mom."

I raised my hands in defense, "Okay." and returned to my seat.

Vegeta had awoken and opened the shade slowly, preparing for a possibility of extreme light shining into his eyes. To his surprise, it was pitch-black. The only light was the continuous blinking of the security signal on the wing and the moon illuminating the ocean. He left it open and took out "Sky Mall" magazine from the seat-back pocket. Vegeta rarely reads anything, only when he's bored. After a couple of pages, he smirks and shows me an advertisement.

"Woman, look," he said, shoving the magazine into my face, "these fools are selling a bed of false grass where domestic animals can release their waste onto!"

For some reason, he found that extremely entertaining. Sometimes, I don't understand this former planet-destroyer I call a husband. I felt the sharp edges of my diamond engagement ring he bought for me, with the company's money, fifteen years ago right before he left for space. Yamacha informed him that his unborn child would be considered a disgrace and sacrificed to the God of Plastic if he didn't marry the expecting mother. I still can't believe Vegeta fell for that crap.

Over the PA system, the pilot announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. As we fly into the African continent, we may experience some slight turbulence. So we ask now that you take your seats and fasten your seatbelts."

Bra turned around and wore misty eyes, "Mommy, is it going to be bumpy?"

"No, sweetie, everything is going to be –"

Vegeta intervened, "Yes, now turn around and buckle that contraption around your waist, brat."

My eyes widened. Did he really just say that? Did _my_ Vegeta feel concern for our daughter? Whatever it was, it's gone now, the old Vegeta regained consciousness. The plane descended unwillingly, causing our souls to feel like they were rising out of our bodies. No matter how many battles he may have been in, Vegeta's stomach cannot take this sudden drop. The barf bag actually came in handy for once.

The plane shook with a vengeance; maybe the God of Plastic was angry at Vegeta for not marrying me sooner. Suddenly, there was a crack of thunder that rumbled the sky – a lightning bolt split the heavens in two. Bra started to shake with hot tears rolling down her frightened face. If only I could be next to her to comfort her! Trunks is not exactly the most soothing being on the planet.

Vegeta was getting antsy. Whenever there was a thunderstorm, he would freak out and think the sky was falling or something. Well now, we're airborne in the sky, confined in a metal box. His Saiyan instinct wants him to protect us, but how can he if he can't even fly out of the plane without injuring others? As all things do, the turbulence passed. The clouds broke to show flat plains expanding for miles in the distant. We had reached Africa.

"Woman," grumbled a nauseous Vegeta, "Is this the location you were talking about?"

"Yes, in fact, it is. But we need to take a shuttle bus from the airport to get to our campsite –"

"Campsite?" he interrupted.

I raised an eyebrow, "Yeah…what? Are you scared of the lions and tigers and bears?"

"No!" he bellowed, "Now stop begrudging me, woman, or feel my wrath!"

I rolled my eyes, "Whatever."

I just hope this vacation won't end-up on the six o'clock news!


	12. Look to Your Left

LOOK TO YOUR LEFT

These filthy weaklings are scampering all over this wretched building they call an "airport". Why, this "airport" is nothing but a place where nuisances can gather and cause extreme lines to be formed and where others "search you" for possibilities of complete and utter terror! If they want terror, I'll show them terror…

"Vegeta, hurry up!" My inner-thoughts were interrupted by my harpy-of-a-wife, Bulma. My daughter, Bra, tightened her grip on my hand. She's so small and vulnerable, like her mother, but when pushed to her limits, she is not one to be reckoned with like her father!

"Daddy…?" a muted voice caught my attention.

"What?" I answered, trying to be as concerned and interested as I possibly could.

Bra looked at the ground, "Well…"

There goes my patience, "What?"

"I HAVE TO GO POTTY!" she basically blurted out for enough people to turn their heads. I _hate_ attracting attention, it's embarrassing.

"Well, then go!"

"But, Daddy…"

I rolled my eyes, "Fine, where's your mother? Doesn't she usually take you to this female watering hole?"

The blue-haired princess shrugged her petite frame, "I dunno, sometimes. Once, Trunks had to take me because Mommy was busy on her phone thingy and so he had to walk into the bathroom with me and I took _extra_ long just to annoy him and – "

"Okay!" I shouted out, "I get it, Trunks was mortified! It wouldn't be the first time."

The beautiful thing about my daughter is that she doesn't know when people are intentionally trying to be mean or crude. So my remark had no affect on her already well-behaved mood.

People swarmed all around us. The air was thick and smelled of manure. The quality of oxygen here is much heavier than that of West City, let alone Vegeta-sei. I felt perspiration descend my neck and down onto the small of my back. I coughed-out smoke and vehicle exhaust – hoping to remove these toxins from my being.

"Bulma!" I called forth my mate so she would stop taking an overwhelming amount of pictures with replicas of real-life animals that we will be observing in just 24 hours.

She caught sight of my request, "Hold on, honey, just one more picture of Trunks!"

Knowing that would take an eternity, I directed Bra towards the long line for the female waste-removal entrance and stood by her side until she was inside. A woman, probably Bulma's age, tapped me on the shoulder, which someone should never do, and looked at me with determined eyes.

"Is that your daughter?" asked the squeaky-voice, overly-tanned woman.

I played along, just to relieve my everlasting boredom, "So what if she is?"

She laughed an annoying laugh similar to Kakarott's spawn's mate's, "Then she is _adorable_!" She bent down to Bra's eye level, "Hi, sweetie, what's your name?"

Bra, being as stubborn as I am, responded, "Lady, you can't just approach someone's child without consent, you know!"

Obviously shocked by her reaction, the woman blinked, "Oh, alright then! Well, she _is_ a feisty one, isn't she?"

"Whatever." I concluded our "conversation" with that, hoping she would get the message.

A group of tourists, and no, we are not considered "tourists", passed by with their guide holding a microphone and maintaining a probably fake smile that he will drop once the group turns their backs. The guide, a young scrawny man, held his gaze at me and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, as we exit out into the mysteries of Kenya, look to your left and see a heart-touching scene of a father and daughter bonding by the entrance to the ladies room – isn't that sweet?"

The whole group "ooed" and "aahed" while Bra looked to me, "Daddy, why are those people taking pictures of us?"

I smirked down at my princess, "Because, dear, we're royalty and people like to take pictures of royalty."

She scrunched her eyebrows together, "Oh." And with that, ran into the bathroom.


	13. The Wheels on the Bus

THE WHEELS ON THE BUS

This damn bus – oh, how I hate this _damn_ bus. Rickety, rickety, rickety, and squeak goes the annoying, pestering mechanical inner-workings of this "mode of transportation". But, alas, this is where I let myself end up. I could have been King, ruler of the universe – but no, I had to settle down and be a clone of every other civilian on this God-forsaken planet.

"Vegeta, stop sulking – we're in _Kenya_ for Kami's sake!"

Bulma, why does she have to shout so loud? I'm right beside her; she must have depth-perception issues.

"Woman, I do not know what this 'Kenya' entails but, from the looks of the place, it's similar to the fifth planet of the third quarter in the West Galaxy."

"Vegeta, how many times have I told you _not_ to refer to extra-terrestrial life that nobody even has a clue about?" by this time, she was hyperventilating and my ears were blown out. Trunks was trying to hide his embarrassment by tuning out the world with his rubber ear plugs, though I highly doubt they supply an efficient amount of solitude. Bra, who was asleep in my arms, tossed around and slowly opened her eyes.

"Daddy…?" she murmured.

"Yes princess?"

She inhaled, "Are you and Mommy yelling again?"

Bulma intervened, "No, sweetie, your Daddy and I are just talking about all the animals we're going to see today, okay?"

She reclosed her eyes, "Mm-hm."

Once she fell back into a slumber, I turned towards my mate, "Nice job, woman, next time, tell her the truth…she'll figure it out eventually."

Bulma crossed her arms in exasperation, "Why do you have to be so negative about everything?"

My teeth clenched, "Why do you have to be so nosy?"

Her eyes met mine, "Do you _really_ want to start this?"

I smirked, "Now, that wouldn't be wise, would it?"

She was about to retort when the bus jerked to a halt. Fumes and exhaust spat out of the bottom as the driver cut the engine. Perspiration dripped down my neck when the air conditioning was turned off along with the power, I pulled at my collar.

"Woman, why did that idiot cut the oxygen supply?"

Being a natural genius, she answered, "No, Vegeta, it's not oxygen that he turned off – it's the man-made chilled carbon dioxide from the vents."

Embarrassed, I responded, "I knew that!"

Bulma grab her purse and tapped Trunks on the shoulder. I lifted Bra up and held her against my chest. She has grown so much over the past couple of years; it was only yesterday that I held her as a newborn. Only now, she was just a larger newborn – she still was dependent on her parents and whined every second of every day. I learned to read only a few years prior to us coming here, so reading the street signs was not my forte. Bulma, being the seasoned-traveler that she is, pulled out a map, like the other "tourists" did and followed her intuition. Naturally, I would've had the inkling to fly up into the air and scan the area from above.

"Do you have _any_ idea where you are going?" I questioned her logic.

With her nose buried in the map, "Yes, actually I do. My father did an expedition here, once."

I sneered, "And _how long_ ago was that?"

She turned around and glared at me, "Vegeta, does it matter? I'm trying to have a decent vacation with the three people I love most. It would be helpful if you did not doubt my every move!"

Bra whimpered in my arms and I tightened my grasp, "Well, if we weren't wandering in this God-forsaken desert, then maybe – just maybe – I'll consider being more lenient!"

Trunks was trudging along behind, probably trying to separate himself from us. He continued on ahead even though we stopped, "Boy! Where do you think you're going?"

He popped a headphone out of his ear, "To where everyone else is going, duh!"

"When I get home," I thought, "I'm going to give him an _extra_ long training session!"


	14. I Know a Song

I KNOW A SONG

"Daddy…Daddy…DADDY!"

The persistent shouts of my youngest child shook me from my trance, "Huh? What?"

She shrank when I shouted back, "Nothing, just that we're going to go and eat and Mommy wants to know what you want…that's all…"

I rolled my eyes, "What does that woman want now?"

We had been walking for a couple of miles into town – town meaning a small village full of tourists in their visors and floral shirts all swarming to the same attractions just to be the first in a line that will clearly stay unmoving for hours. With my daughter on my back and two rolling duffels in each hand, maneuvering in the rough terrain made my life more cheery every minute. Vacation she calls it? Bah! This is nothing but mere torture to make up for all the times where I've slacked at home and in our relationship. Well, she won't get away with this that easily. Don't think that a week in this sand-trap will break the Prince of all Saiyans!

"Mom! Dad! I see it – I see civilization!" cried Trunks who was feet ahead of us.

"Thank God!" I rejoiced, almost throwing Bra off my being.

"Daddy!" she screamed.

I caught her just in the nick of time, "Bra! What have I told you about falling?"

She whimpered, "Don't do it…"

"Exactly," I fixed my gaze to the nearby town, "now, onward and over!"

Bulma interjected, "It's onward and upward, Vegeta."

"Whatever, woman!"

After a few descents down hills, we made it safely into the populace. And by safely, I mean physically – my mental health fried years ago…

As mention before, I detest repeating myself; this "town" was quite small to draw such a large crowd. Probably its unnatural amount of tumbleweeds and rocks attracts the pure and moronic. That would explain why it "sang" to Bulma.

When we entered the center of this sparse settlement, Bra, from my back, screamed in my ear, "Daddy!"

As if my ear drums weren't already blown-out from the years of dealing with a banshee, "What, Bra?"

Smirking proudly since she succeeded in getting my attention, "I know a song we should sing –"

"No!" shouted Trunks and me in unison.

Bulma faced us, "Aw, come on Vegeta! And, Trunks, we know you _love_ singing!"

His face turned an odd orange shade, "N-no I don't!"

"Then who is singing in _your _shower?" she persisted. Trunks just spun around and crossed his arms in embarrassment.

Now it was Bulma's turn to cross her arms, "Oh, Trunks! Don't be like your father!"

"Hey!" I interjected.

"PEOPLE!" shouted Bra.

We all turned to the big noise coming from such a small being, "Are we going to sing the song or _what_?"

Looking to each for joint-approval, there were three nods of the head to signal that we would actually have to go through with this. It's probably the only way to shut her up about it.

Bra, who smirked, similarly to me, sighed, "Good! Now…"

**A/N: WHICH SONG SHOULD THE BRIEFS FAMILY SING? POST YOUR ANSWER IN THE COMMENTS BOX!**


	15. Big Bang StomachAche

BIG BANG STOMACH-ACHE

"No, no, no, no, no, no! I am NOT singing some Kami-forsaken song in the middle of the fucking safari when I have been walking an insane amount in this fucking heat!" I blurted out as a last resort.

Bulma rubbed her temples, "Vegeta, calm down!"

"I will not calm down, woman!"

She sighed, "You don't have to singing if you don't want to but Bra and I do so just shut up – you're more immature than Bra, if that's possible."

I crossed my arms in defeat. Normally, no one would lose an argument with me, but seeing as the woman is as stubborn as me; the rule doesn't apply to her. We stumbled into the nearest restaurant to sample the local fare. It looked like a regular restaurant you would see back in West City, just with some Kenyan influence. After being seated at a table, I was handed a plastic brochure with a list of edible meals…in print. Unfortunately, learning the Earth language was easy, but reading is a whole other story. Bulma didn't have time to teach me since she had Trunks and Capsule Corporation to handle. Plus, I wasn't the best listener.

"Woman," I inquired, "what does this read? If it's food then I would like all of it."

Trunks rolled his eyes, "Dad, you can't just order everything! People will think we're crazy!"

I turned to face my easily-embarrassed son, "Trunks, you cannot go through life taking into consideration what everyone else thinks – they are probably thinking the same thing."

Bulma gaped in pure shock, "Vegeta, that was the most sincere and thoughtful thing you have ever said to anyone!"

"Woman, that was the most sincere phrase I have uttered. Remember when we went to that resort place by the beach. And as we were lying there, I said –"

"Vegeta! Not now, your children are here!" she interrupted.

"What? Why censor the facts of life? I recall you were dressed very –"

Trunks interjected, "Okay, stop! No one wants to hear your guy's 'night out'."

I snapped my brochure closed and cross my arms, leaning back in my chair. A servant, I presume, ushers to our table and demands our choices. If it were me selecting, he would not be serving for much longer. When the food arrives more quickly than I thought, I inhaled the majority of everyone's dish – we had been walking for three hours straight!

Just then, my insides make this uncomfortable, loud growl.

"Vegeta?" Bulma asked concerned, "Are you okay?"

"Yes, woman, I'm fine!" then another growl caused me to clench my abdomen. Soon, the growls became much more than I could bear; I darted to the nearest restroom.

Bra pulled on Bulma's sleeve, "Is Daddy okay?"

Bulma smirked, "Yes, he's fine alright. It's probably just karma that's been building up over the last few days."

**THE END! I WILL FINISH THE STORY OFF ON THAT FINE NOTE.**

**I DIDN'T WANT TO PERSUE THESE ONE-SHOTS FURTHER SINCE I HAVE OTHER STORIES IN THE MAKING.**


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